


Shame Red as Blood

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Episode-missing scene, Explicit Language, F/M, Guilt, Masturbation, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is Cesare thinking, feeling, that moment that he kisses Lucrezia in front of the seating chart?</p>
<p><i>Cesare kisses Lucrezia fiercely, every emotion, every thought, his very </i>soul<i> being poured into her...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Shame Red as Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is my new favourite thing to write; to wallow in the Cesare/Lucrezia... :)

For Cesare, it has never been about simply _loving_ his sister. Of course he loves her. That is the natural order of things, the way it should be. But there has been this undercurrent, since he grew old enough to understand desire, that has coloured his own mind in his interactions with her.

And until he was staring down into her face, at the tears filming her eyes but not yet fallen, as she asked him, _Are you?_ about whether he was at her side… he had never thought she would return his feelings. He hadn't thought she _could_ , honestly; what sister craves her brother that way?

Even if he's asked himself that question a thousand times: what brother craves his sister this way? he's never had an answer. Until now.

Because he told her he would always be at her side, that Naples and France and Spain could turn to dust for all he cared, and he's kissing her— _kissing_ her, like he's been dreaming since he was about sixteen years old, and it's almost everything he could hope for… except the horrible sneaking suspicion that he's corrupting her, that he'd do anything for her, but how could he have done _this_ to her?

When he was sixteen years old, he would never have imagined actually touching her, because she was still much too young in his eyes, but there was a strange almost unknowable feeling he'd had then, every time he looked at his sister. When he was eighteen, he began to understand, as she blossomed from a child into more of a woman, that what he was feeling had been the first rumblings of desire. A terrible, forbidden desire that he could never act on.

Now, Cesare kisses Lucrezia fiercely, every emotion, every thought, his very _soul_ being poured into her as if perhaps he can make her understand, and his thoughts are dim, his entire concentration focused on her, except a tiny, appalled part of him reminding him that this is his _sister_ , about to be newly married, and what is he _doing_?

It isn't until he's pulling away, yanking himself back into control and twisting to the side, where he can no longer see her desperate, unhappy face, that he realises she was kissing him back. That her small hands had been on his back, stroking with wild abandon through his doublet and shirt.

"Forgive me," he says, almost a gasp. For he's never been so aroused in his life; his body is still playing to the tune of lust and desire and even love, and so he whirls, striding from the chamber as quickly as he can while hoping that no one will notice the ridge of his arousal in his leather breeches.

He makes it back to his chamber without anyone asking to speak to him or stopping him, and he throws himself onto his bed, on his back, legs splayed. He doesn't want to, he swears to himself. Even as his hand creeps downward and over his swollen cock, to lie atop it like some fearsome thing; in his mind, Cesare imagines it's something loathsome: not only his hand, held against his erection, but that very organ itself—what right does it have to come to life at the touch of his sister's lips?

If he's gazed at her thousands of times, and if in a handful of those moments he felt the stirring of his cock, what of it? Never before had he looked down into her face and seen that expression: hurt and bewildered, as if Djem had died all over again, only worse, because it was directed at _him_ , Cesare, the brother who loves her, would do anything for her. How could she question that, even for a moment? And something about her unfallen tears and her beautiful lips, rosy from the impulse to cry, had turned that knife of desire within him until he had felt himself grow within his braies and then his mouth had been on hers, even though his _mind_ itself was still almost unwilling. _Almost_.

The kiss itself was like a key, unlocking everything he'd been feeling and trying to keep hidden away, until he could do nothing but be amazed at the taste of her lips and the way that he felt upon kissing her, his body responding all over. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before; not even when, back when she was little more than a child, he'd been fucking women while she spied on him.

In his greatest shame—greater, perhaps, than even the thoughts of kissing her had been, before he'd actually done it—he had always gotten off harder, longer even, when he knew Lucrezia might be at the window, her eyes fixed on him, drumming up more desire for the woman in his arms. He ought to have thought it strange.

Now, Cesare wonders what Lucrezia would think if she could see him as he is, lying on his bed, lightly stroking himself. Would she watch? Does he _want_ her to watch him…? It's not something he ever truly considered before; accustomed to the simple, unchangeable fact that she always did, he'd never really tried to constrain her. But perhaps now she would be too disgusted by his impertinence, his encroachment of her, that she would never want him to be near her again. Had he ruined it all, everything _them_ , by giving into such a base, crude impulse to kiss her?

It had started because she had wanted him by her side, always. What if it ends because Cesare is a fool? Because he took something—wrested something—away from her that wasn't his for the taking? Wouldn't have ever been his.

Cesare can't stop hating himself any more than he can stop himself from unlacing his braies and reaching his hand inside, to find the skin-to-skin contact he craves. His breath shivers out of him at the first genuine caress of naught but his bare hand against his bare cock, and his toes even curl a bit.

Before he knows it, he's grabbing for a corner of the sheet to catch the results of his orgasm as he begins to come, eyes screwed shut, legs pulled up and his body singing as he pictures Lucrezia's face.

There must be shame written red as blood all over his own face as he drifts back down, as he remembers that his sister's wedding is very soon and what right, in God's green earth, does Cesare have to imagine her face at the pinnacle of his pleasure? None at all.

He wipes himself more thoroughly with a cloth from the basin by the bed, then laces himself back up, throwing his legs over the side until his feet hit the floor and then, balancing his elbows on his knees, he buries his face in his hands.

_Oh, Lucrezia, what have I done? To you?_

He tries to think of how he can meet her eyes after this, how he can possibly spend any time with her… but how can he not? If she hasn't thrown him completely from her life, he can't very well do what she's so worried about and leave her.

If any other man had dishonoured her thus, he'd— For a moment, Cesare's own inventiveness fails him. Castrating a man for daring to… do what he'd done… to thoughts of her face, her body, seemed too good for such a man. But Cesare had done it himself—! He wants… God, he wants to punish himself for his sinful thoughts, but he hadn't _intended_ things to happen the way they had.

He almost wants to go to the Holy Father himself and confess. Surely there would be no absolution. And just as certainly, his father's wrath—and that of simply their father, not even the Pope—would truly be a wonder to behold. It might, just might, pardon Cesare for what he's done.

But then he remembers Lucrezia, her beautiful face, the roses enshrined in her lips and her cheeks, and the feel of them, softer than her baby's skin, against his own.

He cannot do it. He cannot punish himself, because anything he could do to himself would, by extension, hurt Lucrezia—if she doesn't hate him by now.

He recollects her flush, though, the tears dripping from her face, as he stalked away from her, not quick enough not to catch a glimpse. Why should she cry? Was she appalled, infuriated, desolate at the loss of her brother?

Or could it be something else?

Just thoughts of her have brought his arousal back to life; Cesare wills himself to think of something—the Holy Father and Giulia Farnese, for instance, enjoying each other's favours—and then he stands up and leaves his chamber at nearly a gallop.

For better or for worse, he must find Lucrezia, and apologise; seek her out and discover whether she hates him now.

He hasn't far to go. In only moments he nearly runs her over in the hall, steps light and fleet as she approaches his chamber.

"Cesare!" she says, and lifts her skirts, begins to run; she doesn't need to, she's mere steps away from him, but then she's pressed against his chest, curved into him, her body snug against his. He wraps his arms around her without thinking; how could he not? She holds herself tight to him, her arms like bands of steel at his back. "Cesare," she repeats, and before she can chastise him, he says,

"Lucrezia, my love. God, I am so sorry."

At this her face tilts up, her eyes lift to his. "Whatever for?" she asks, as if she could have possibly forgotten the kiss he'd pushed on her, surely unwanted.

"But… you must know."

"I have felt so unloved," she murmurs, playing with the laces on his doublet. "For just a moment, brother, too soon ended, I felt as any Borgia should: loved and intensely desired. You wish to apologise?"

"My love," is all he can get out, his throat strangled by emotion he can't swallow. He's relieved, of course, but also horrified. What has he wrought here?

"Alfonso… he is so cool to me as of late," she says, twisting her fingers into the laces until the warmth of her fingertips is burning through his shirt. "Perhaps all that shall change when we are married; I do not know. But you, my brother, my dearest, most beloved brother, gave me a gift. Can you not see?"

"I see it," Cesare chokes out. "I see too much, dear sis. I have wronged you—surely you know this much?"

"I know nothing of the sort," Lucrezia says, and her fingers slide upwards, to the opening of his shirt, to press warm and bare against his throat. All of a sudden the terrible knot in his throat eases. It is as if her touch is that of a healer's. Ironic, that. But then, she always could soothe him with only a touch.

"I cannot touch you," Cesare says stiffly. Lucrezia lets out a little giggle, strangely incongruous, musical even in its intensity.

"But you do, Cesare, you do," she points out, and he realises—too late! What has he done now?—that his erection is fierce and strong and likely she can feel it through all the layers of her clothes. He lets her go as if burned and nearly leaps backwards in his haste to stop defiling her with the feel of his unruly male organ. "Cesare!" she cries, and reaches for him.

"No, Lucrezia, no," he says, holding out his hands. "You must know this cannot be. This _cannot_ be. You are to be married. It is right that you should only desire your husband." _And not me,_ he silently adds, but she will not be placated.

"And what of you?" she asks, imperiously. "What of how I feel about _you_?"

"You must not say such things," he pleads, a little desperately. "You do not know—"

"Of course," Lucrezia replies at once, demure once more. "I would never. Could never." She comes closer, gentle steps this time, and leans up to leave the imprint of a kiss on his cheek, like a burn, like a scar that will never heal. "My only love," she breathes almost inaudibly against his face, and then she steps back.

"Sis," Cesare says, drowning under the weight of his own desire, his own loathsomely bad choices.

"Feel not guilty, brother," she tells him, just before she turns around and walks away.

Helplessly, he can do nothing but watch her go.

END.


End file.
